Grieving as an Enneagram 1Ukázka

Conversation around grief is performative, which can make you feel inauthentic.

There’s something about grief that seems so very rehearsed, and badly rehearsed at that. There's unspoken expectations about what grief should look like, what to say, and how to say it.

And we're all bad at it. There's no thing that can perfectly fill the space so we rehearse canned lines or say nothing at all.

If you experience the loss of a loved one, you soon realize how true this has been of you when others have gone through tragedy in the past. How performative I, you, others can be!

For me, to now have been on the receiving end of the “imperfect condolence” has been fascinating and humbling.

It’s helpful to know that you will not know what to say or how to say it. You won’t know what to do or how to do it.

You’ll grieve imperfectly.

This stings. I’ve often described myself as a recovering perfectionist, and the Enneagram Ones that I know typically relate. So to face the loss of a close loved one and not have a clear manual or guidebook to follow adds to the discomfort.

I recently wrote a poem (shared below) in which I call out this need to grieve perfectly.

Perfectionists avoid doing things they’re interested in or curious about simply because they know they won’t do it well in normal circumstances. Why start something you can’t finish? Why do something you can’t do well?

When someone you love dies you have to grieve. It’s tough to not know how to do it or to do it well. Acknowledging you won’t do it perfectly is important, even freeing.

Today, in your grief, remember that even if you don’t know what to think or how to even grieve, God is there with you too.

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Here’s that poem about grief. May it minister to your heart.

All this, too, is grief

I have screamed with my head
underwater yelled while
driving alone at high speed

Stared blankly at the
page blankly at the open
sky blinked as
Heaven seemed to blink
back in mutual, respectful
silence

I’ve held my head
high held others
up put my hand in the
hand of another to hold
it tightly

Coiled arms around stomach as
my insides burn, left
the phone
unanswered

I’ve laid awake
in bed empty like the husk of a
shelled peanut
void of coherent thought all
through the night

Imagined a solitary crystal
tear so exquisite and
ordained
strangers want to lick it
off my skin as it rolls
down my cheek

I have glimpsed you at a
distance in airports
on escalators only for you to
disappear
suddenly morph into
strangers who wear
blue coats, buttoned shirts

I’ve been turned and
heaved in moments
unexpected

spun like a feather
in the wind